Connecting the Dots
by poi922
Summary: Detective Fusco is having enough trouble keeping up with his regular day job in addition to his pro-bono activities with the Formidable Foursome. And now this…! (A story based on interview comments by Kevin Chapman; POV: various; post 3.12)
1. Chapter 1

_It was a dark and stormy night…._  
But not near as dark and stormy as his mood!

The endless rain and menacing clouds defined his entire week…which had been a real bitch even without the inclement weather, what with trying to keep up with his regular day job in addition to his pro-bono activities with the Formidable Foursome. After an all-nighter which lasted well into the morning, he's finally made it back to his apartment, thoughts of a cold beer and his lounger increasingly lightening his disposition.

_And now this!_

"What do you mean, you lost all our…your…savings?" He fairly shouts, gripping the phone with white knuckled intensity.

The answer is doled out between a series of sobs and hiccups as his ex attempts to explain how she became a victim of one of the oldest, and as he knows, most common cons perpetuated on single women: the ever popular Romance Scam. He listens with increasing disgust, trying very hard to refrain from interjecting some colorful expletives as she outlines the entire sad affair from beginning to end.

The end being of course that she's left with an almost empty bank account and lover boy long gone!

"And it didn't occur to you there might be something fishy about a guy you barely knew hitting you up for a loan?" he asks, when she finally finishes her long tale of woe.

_"I did know him!"_ she retorts defensively. _"We've been communicating for over six months! He'd just gotten out of the army and was starting a new business…and…"_

"Aww, jeeze…!"

_"And I have his name. And a photo of him in his uniform!"_

Fusco snorts. "Like either one of those is going to check out as the real McCoy! The guy probably wasn't ever in the service!"

The sniffling starts again, and he mentally kicks himself. His ragging on her isn't accomplishing anything good; what he needs now is some actionable information that will allow him to start running down the bastard. Like he needs something else to add to his "to do" list…though that little item just made it to the top!

…because if she's out of money, dollars to donuts the next step will be her asking the courts to raise his alimony payments!

And while he doesn't mind paying child support for Lee – the kid is his son after all – he has a hard time justifying money spent on Botox treatments and designer clothes when his ex is quite capable of finding a well paying job on her own. Besides, a good chunk of that money in the savings account is…was…part of Lee's college fund.

But talking to her over the phone is not working; he finds he's far too inclined to throw the cell into the wall out of sheer frustration!  
Time to visit the old homestead…

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''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

Meeting him at the door, she promptly bursts into tears again and he finds himself holding the woman as she cries into his jacket, a woman with whom he had lived for years and with whom he'd made a child together…but who is now not much more than a stranger to him.

He pats her awkwardly on the back until she finally calms down and allows him to lead her to a living room chair. A new one he notes. Yeah, his comfortable recliner was probably the first of the old furniture to be dumped on Good Will.

It feels strange to be in this house again where he'd lived as a family man for so many years. Lots of changes, and not just the furniture; the curtains are different too and the walls are all painted another color, decorating touches that when he was married he'd probably never have even noticed.

He takes a deep breath. _Over and done. Water under the bridge._

And there's been _a lot_ of flow under that bridge! So much that it's eroded almost all of the emotional ties he has to the woman, giving him now the ability to view this situation not so much through the eyes of a once-upon-a-time husband, but through that of a NYPD detective. Something that's going to stand him is good stead in this case, allowing him to focus on the facts of the case rather than his emotions!

He's come a long way from the blubbering fool Simmons pulled off a bar stool and took home, and he's glad he decided to call here during school hours. No sense giving Lee any false hope that his parents will ever be getting back together.

"Lion, there's something else…" His ex is sitting on the edge of the chair, nervously shredding a tissue between her fingers. He works hard not to react, not to correct her with a reminder that she has no right to that pet name anymore. He's never liked it and under the circumstances it now really grates.

"What?"

She pulls a folded paper out of the pocket of her designer slacks and silently hands it to him.

He reads quickly, then, "Son of a bitch..!"

_"I know your name and where you live and where your son goes to school._  
_It will take another $9900 to make me forget that information and disappear. _  
_You have until next Friday to wire it to my account."_

"How much have you already given this asshole?" he asks with some force.

She starts sniffling again. "I sent him 9900 the first time, to help him get part of the down payment for his new business. It was just a loan. He even emailed me a copy of the earnest money contract showing how the money had been applied."

"And then?"

"He sold his car, but he didn't get enough for it and the deadline on the contract was coming up…."

Fusco bites back a scathing retort, reminding himself to stay focused_._ He knows this is difficult for her, but it's just as difficult for him, given that the majority of that money she signed over to the scumbag had come out of his NYPD paycheck!

"So you sent him another…what?"

"Same amount; another 9900." She looks up, and adds earnestly, "But it was also applied to the down payment. He confirmed it with a copy of the revised contract!"

"That's it then? That's all you sent him?"

"Yes," she replies in a small voice. Then adds, "Lion, why didn't he just ask for the total to begin with? Why just keep dragging this out…?"

"Because the feds require banks to report cash transactions and deposits of more than ten thousand. Lover boy wasn't smart enough though. The feds make the banks report any transactions within a year that total 10k or more."

"So they'll be able to catch him?"  
Her hopeful tone makes him feel guilty, though Lord knows why it should. This whole disaster is all on her!

But still, he tries to be gentle.  
"Not a given. The whole banking system is in such a mess now with all the new rules, the bureaucrats are over whelmed. They've got much bigger fish to fry. By the time they get around to looking at this, he'll probably have skipped the country."

She covers her face with her hands and remains silent for several minutes before responding.  
"So what do we do?"

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'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

"Are you going to help here or not?"

Fusco's temper is coming to a slow boil. He'd been put on the back burner for the better part of an hour while his contact had been in and out of the office, answering phones, and making numerous trips to the coffee pot to refill an obscenely large mug. A mug with a Flyers logo, one of the Bruins biggest competitor. Figures…

Maybe this was not such a good idea. The Chief would almost certainly order him to dump this problem on the Frauds department rather than investing criminal investigative time on it. He's even thought about calling the Professor and asking for help but Glasses and his callous crew have much bigger and far more dangerous targets to keep them busy lately.

Besides, the thought of Wonder Boy and the Goth Queen smirking over his ex's gullibility puts him off.

"Look, Detective", says the investigator finally, his rumpled suit a snow field of powdered sugar, compliments of the funnel cake on which he had been snacking. "We receive hundreds of allegations a month from victims who state they got involved in an online relationship with someone who claims to be a U.S. Soldier."

And to make his point, he motions to a skyscraper stack of folders on the nearby file cabinet.

"The con gets the woman hooked with all sorts of sugary dialogue and then inevitably begins asking for money for various false service-related needs. Like transportation costs, or communication fees, or marriage, or processing out and medical fees. Victims of these scams lose tens of thousands of dollars, with a very low possibility of recovery."

He attempts to dust off the front of his jacket, but in the process merely manages to smear the greasy sugar into the fabric.  
"Your ex is just one of a very long line of victims."

"Yeah, well, you're Special Frauds, so tell me how you go about finding these scum bags?"

The detective is quick to read the subtext in that question and throws the chubby cop a skeptical look.  
"You think of going after the guy yourself?"

"Yeah. 'Cause I consider this more than a con. It's extortion under threat of bodily harm. So you got a problem with that?"

The guy makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a scoff.  
"Not at all. I got plenty to do without adding another headache to the stack. Knock yourself out."

Which is of course exactly the answer Fusco expected he'd get. If he's to get his ex out of this mess within the given time frame, it's going to be up to him.

"So any pointers as to where I start?"

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'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

"Ms. Shaw, I would really prefer you not bring Bear these treats. He's on a special diet and…"

"He's likes them, Finch." Shaw replies, breaking off another section of the Pupperoni stick and holding it out to the salivating dog. The gentleness with which Bear takes the treat from her fingers is belied by the sudden violent movement of teeth and tongue which has the piece quickly disappearing. "Besides, he could stand to gain some weight."

"That may be Ms. Shaw, but those treats contain some questionable meat by-products…in addition to onion, which is bad for dogs," he replies. "_And_ all sorts of preservative chemicals. You will note they don't need to be refrigerated." He fixes a determined gaze on the black garbed assassin. "It's worse than fast food, so please refrain from tempting him with problematic foodstuffs."

Shaw glances at the older man. Evidently concluding that the issue is really distressing him, she sighs and pockets the rest of the small bag. Finch is not fooled however, knowing she'll probably just ensure he's not around the next time she gives treats to the dog.

But with the problem currently settled to his satisfaction he proceeds to retrieve a photo from the printer and limps thoughtfully to the suspect board, ignoring Bear's huffing sounds as his sometimes difficult employee moves to the computer station chair.

If she puts her feet up on his desk… He turn and prepares his sternest look, but she refrains from making that mistake. Unlike his other employee.

"Another number, Finch?"

Focusing his attention back on the board and taping the image next to a second photo, he steps back, a deep frown carving furrows in his face. "Yes. Just this morning. Two Numbers actually."

But Shaw shows little interest in the matter, her mind obviously elsewhere. With just a cursory glance at the board, she says, "Well, call in Captain America to help you. I've got an appointment with a gunsmith in Queens." And with that pronouncement she pats Bear on the head and proceeds out of the library.

_Should he call her back? _ He turns stiffly, watching her walk out the gate and down the stairs, a prowling cat on a mission. If he did, he thinks - hopes - she would respond in a positive manner and offer to help. But with Ms. Shaw one can never be certain…

Unlike Reese, he's not that sure that Shaw has truly committed to the team yet, sometimes giving the impression that she's merely honing her skills, filling in her free time. Or maybe she was serious in her past comments and really does just hang around only because of Bear. Who knows?

Besides, this situation might require a scalpel, not a hammer.

He turns back to the board to study the two images. One is of a stranger, middle aged and balding, a male staring out of the confines of the photo with calculating eyes. The other…the other is one of a person he knows well. What he doesn't know is if these two Numbers are in some way related.

Time to call in reinforcements.

.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

"I can't watch them both, Finch" The ex-agent stands at the board with a thoughtful expression on his face, fingering one of the photos while the other hand idly strokes Bear's head. The dog sits close, leaning into the tall man and exhibiting a full blown doggie smile while enjoying the massage.

"Yes, I know. I was planning on following the balding gentleman…"

"No!" Reese replies sharply, then continues more calmly, "No…you don't need to do that. That's why you have Shaw around, remember? Let her take the guy."

Finch turns to his employee, recognizing a tone he hadn't heard much lately. Reese in this "take charge" mode depicts a mindset that the geek knows he's unlikely to change. But he tries anyway. "Ms. Shaw is busy elsewhere. And I certainly can do this. If I may remind you, it won't be the first time I've kept a Number under surveillance."

"_Ms. Shaw," _the ex-agent replies, emphasizing the name, "can get herself un-busy." Pulling the photo off the board he hands it to Finch as the dog huffs in disappointment at the abbreviated ear rub.

"Just tell her to get back here and get to work."

"Or she can be asked nicely and make up her own mind…"

Both men whirl around at the familiar voice as Shaw strolls into the chamber, Bear bouncing happily toward her. She cradles a Remington in both arms, fingers lovingly gripping the chassis. Was there a time when she didn't treat weapons like favorite pets? Finch is not sure he'd ever seen her do otherwise. He gives a tight smile.

Reese's reaction however, is quite different. "Wait…! Is that my AICS?"

"Was..."

She adjusts her hold in order to free a hand, which she then uses to rub the dog's ears. Bear grunts his pleasure, obviously considering one human hand as good as another. "Doesn't look like you've used it much. And anyway, I just spent a bundle on a new scope for this baby."

"So you're just confiscating it?" Reese asks incredulously, ignoring his boss who is now shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for the right moment to interject.

"You snooze, you lose..."

"No, that's not…"

At this point Finch concludes it's time to take matters in hand and steps between the two assassins, his annoyance with their squabbling visibly evident on his face.

"Ms. Shaw, I would appreciate your help with this case. We have two numbers and if you would be so kind as to keep an eye on this gentleman until we can figure out what we're dealing with…?"

Shaw looks pointedly at Reese.

"Now see? That's how you ask for help! Like a gentleman. Nice and polite."

"Shaw, if you…"

"That is enough!" Finch's voice is uncommonly stern as he limps to the copier and hands his ad hoc employee the document delivered to the tray during their exchange. "Ms. Shaw, please head to this address. I will fill you in on the details as you proceed."

The former operative accepts the paper and the photo, but her attention is on the board and its lone photo. She glances quickly at Reese who ignores the unspoken question and turns his focus on their employer. The silent exchange however, is not lost on Finch, but like the taller man he disregards it.

"Mr. Reese, I will expect you to keep an eye on your quarry as well. Until we can establish that there is a connection between the two, we'll treat these as two separate cases."

With one last look at the image left on the board, Shaw gives the dog one final ear rub and heads out of the chamber.

"Do you really think…?" Reese starts, his attention back on the board.

Finch frowns. He realizes this assignment may be difficult for the ex-op…but putting Ms. Shaw on this particular target would present a whole other set of challenges. She's not as familiar with the person's past history with the team as is John.

"I don't know what to think, Mr. Reese. We haven't connected all the dots yet. All I know is we have two Numbers and still have to determine if they belong to a victim or perpetrator."

.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

"Talk to me, Finch, 'cause this is just mind-numbing!"

"_What is he doing, Ms. Shaw?" _

The voice in her ear is as calm and precise as ever. Not that she expects otherwise; even in the most stressful situations, Harold seldom gets flustered…though there _are_ times when she detects a strain, particularly around Root or when either she or Reese are in danger. But even then the geek has it under control.

He'd make a good aircraft controller, she thinks idly.

"Nothing. And I mean _nothing_." She shifts her position to glance once more into the window across from the roof top where she lays flat, scope to her eyes. "I don't know how that guy doesn't weigh 300 pounds, given his lack of exercise. All he does for hours on end is sit at that computer!"

She has spent the last two days shadowing her target with little to show for it. Actually, nothing to show for it! Their Number is fifty shades of boring…leaving his pricey apartment, walking the same route to work each morning, stopping at the same coffee vendor before entering the same building to go to the same office and sit at the same desk. And precisely at five, he will reverse the process.

Watching paint dry is more exciting.

"_Then perhaps we need to get a closer look at what keeps his interest."_

"My thoughts _exactly_, Harold." She smiles, boredom erased. "He should be leaving in about another 10 minutes for lunch in the building's cafeteria. The guy is so damn predicable! I can even tell you what he'll order if you want…"

"_That won't be necessary, Ms. Shaw. Just work fast. If his job is somehow tied to the reason we were given his number, I would prefer he not be made aware of our presence." _

"Don't have confidence in me to do this?" Shaw scoffs. "I'm at least as good, if not better than your guard dog. And I don't mean Bear…"

She hears Finch click off the com and smiles. Harold is almost as much fun to rattle as Reese! The geek's been in her ear for most of the morning as she made a quick sojourn into her target's living quarters the minute the man left for work. But the search revealed little of interest, other than an obvious taste for luxury - it was really a phenomenally _fine_ apartment - and a disturbingly large collection of porn on his hard drive.

Then it was back to the roof, where she's observed exactly nothing of interest happening for the last several hours.

But now she watches closely as lunch time approaches and predictably her quarry gathers his jacket and leaves his office. She remains in her position, counting down another five minutes to ascertain he wasn't coming back.

_Time to get moving…!_

She returns the water bottle and scope to her backpack and ducking to keep a low profile, heads to the stairwell, thankful to being moving muscles stiff from inactivity.

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'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

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Finch terminates his call with Shaw and removes his glasses to press two fingers to the bridge of his nose. He's not particularly prone to headaches, but trying to manage these two ex agents lately is proving to be somewhat akin to corralling a couple of ADHD teens. And sometimes he wonders if the perpetually black garbed Shaw is deliberately trying to upset him, in a similar manner that John used to tease him!

Bear nudges his other hand, reminding the recluse of the appointment for their walk in the park.

"Good idea, Bear." And he rises carefully out of his chair while the dog dances around him, tapping out an impatient staccato on the hardwood floor. Sitting for hours at the computer really does a number on his hip, tightening muscles to a painful degree…so a walk is just what he needs. Besides it's time for lunch.

He limps to the file cabinet, retrieves a ball from the top drawer before grabbing his coat from the rack. Then clipping the leash to Bear's collar, the two make their way out of the library.

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

"Hey, mister, it's my turn now isn't it? Tony gots to throw it first last time!"

Finch finds himself surrounded by four pre-pubescent youngsters, each vying for his attention. Evidently the social network even among children this young is very active, for what had started with a simple request many days ago to one boy to throw the ball for Bear, has resulted in several groupies now laying in wait for him whenever he walks in the park.

Though not his groupies…

"I honestly don't know, young man. So to be fair about this, I think it best you count off and start over."

"I'm one!" shouts the only girl in the bunch, putting up her hand and waving it in his face. Caught by surprise, the boys immediately chime in: "I'm two! Three…! I'm four!"

Finch hands the ball to the young girl - who immediately takes off running for the center of the field, Bear and the three boys hot on her heels.

_Ah, to have that kind of energy again…_!

He limps to a nearby bench and pulls the sandwich from his pocket. With a grateful sigh he lowers himself to the seat, anticipating the savory sandwich and the pleasure of watching Bear play with his adoring fans.

He had worried in the beginning that as a military trained animal, Bear might not be an appropriate playmate for young children. After all, their one and only trip to the local dog park had been a disaster as Bear had evidently considered any and all other dogs his inferior and proceeded to bully each into submission, much to the horror of their owners.

Finch was asked …and not so politely…to leave the park with his "vicious" animal.

That incident resulted in his researching further into canine behavior and discovering that dog aggression is fairly common among trained animals such as Bear. That behavior however does not necessarily translate into aggression against humans. It's simply a case that an alpha dog does not "make friends" with other canines, especially other males…but rather, expects to be treated as the boss and will proceed to take charge!

_So, a trait shared by dog and master_?

He smiles at the thought and is searching the brown bag for napkins when he jumps at the sound of a voice from behind.

"I think he's hiding something, Finch."

The older man almost drops the bag. _John! Of course… _

It never ceases to amaze - and unnerve him - as to how both his ex-operative employees have the ability to simply move from one place to another without seemingly to disturb even the air molecules around them. Like they could just disappear and then materialize from one location to another.

_Beam me down, Scotty…_

He's been trying to steel himself against reacting to the sudden appearance of either in an effort to conceal his own vulnerabilities, though the instinctive need to do so irritates him no end.

"I would appreciate your announcing your arrival next time, Mr. Reese. I wasn't expecting you here."

And as the ex-agent moves silently to sit on the bench next to him, "Aren't you supposed to be watching your Number?"

"I followed him all day yesterday and most of today…"

"And what makes you think he's hiding something"? Finch asks, finishing off the last of the half sandwich.

But Reese's focus has shifted to the raucous game of "keep away" being played by the dog and his human playmates. "What's going on with Bear out there?"

The older man turns his attention to the center of the grassy field. "Oh, those are Bear's groupies. They've been helping me exercise him since he really needs more than just the walks I can provide…and you've been rather too busy lately to take him running."

"Good idea, Finch!" the ex-op responds, giving his employer a rare smile.

"Yes, well…you were saying? About hiding something?"

"It looks to me like Fusco's ignoring his day job in favor of some other activities", the ex-op replies,

watching with considerable interest as Finch retrieves a half sandwich from the bag. "I've cloned his phone again and heard he got called on the carpet for missing a court date yesterday. Plus, he's making the rounds of several known street rats."

Finch pinches off a small piece of crust and tosses it to the ever present parade of strutting pigeons that daily patrol the park benches. He watches with idle amusement as the birds jostle each other for access to the morsel of bread.

"Are you going to eat that?"

Looking up he catches Reese staring at the sandwich. "Well, no…"

"Because I had to skip breakfast…"

Finch silently hands the half sandwich to his employee, then watches it disappear in just a matter of a few bites. Amazing. Bear couldn't have polished it off any faster. _Another similarity between dog and master…_

Dusting his hands and wiping his mouth on the offered napkin, Reese continues, "Whatever is taking up his time, it's not something within the scope of his regular job."

"Perhaps he's just a conscientious police officer following leads on a special case…" Finch offers.

The ex-agent scoffs. "Or just a dirty cop going back to playing his old tricks."

.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

Fusco juggles the hot dog in one hand, a diet coke in the other. His stomach had been growling for the last half hour, reminding him that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And that a cup of coffee washing down a stale donut is not considered a valid substitute.

He places the coke on the top of one of the cities large trash bins, studiously ignoring the discolorations there on.  
_Can't worry about everything_.  
With one hand now free, he uses his finger to rearrange the globs of mustard and relish on the top of the wiener, and…damn! His best tie too! Unfortunately the dark blue one, on which a yellow stain fairly shouts its presence.

Wadding up several of the skimpy napkins provided by the street vendor, he carefully scrapes the blob from the fabric. Satisfied that the now greenish spot could be mistaken for an artistic design, he trashes the napkins while glancing around the area. That prickling in the back of his neck is back again. One he has been feeling on and off for a couple of days now and if he didn't know better he'd think someone was eyeballing him.

But a constant survey of his surroundings has revealed nothing. Besides, he's a cop! He knows the mechanics of tailing a subject, and the methods used to shake them! He's used all of them.

_Still…._

The morning had been less than productive. His efforts to trace the account his ex's con man had used to receive his money…correction, his ex's money…proved futile without a proper warrant. And that was something he wasn't going to request yet, as it was a given the minute this case became official it would be bumped to the Frauds department.

And all the while his ex and his boy were in danger it would sit and grow mold!

Because visualizing the huge stack of open cases he'd seen in that office yesterday, it would likely be the next millennium before this file was even opened, much less solved! So that left it up to him to find another way to root out this lowlife and eliminate the threat to mother and son.

His last meeting with his former wife had revealed little more than he'd gotten the first time around, though she had made the effort to print out all her email exchanges with that scum. And wasn't that gag worthy material!

Ignoring the flowery and blatantly false assertions of all the "love" crap, he was able to pick up on something his ex had considered inconsequential. That is, the con mentioned several times a project on which he had spent a lot of his money, thus leaving him with few funds "to buy his dream restaurant".

"An Italian restaurant?" Fusco had asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"What's wrong with wanting to have your own business? At least he'd get to make his own hours! Be home at a reasonable time!"

_Oh, yeah. That old argument. Guess her gunny sack is still full of grievances… _

Fusco had shook his head, pointing out that small business owners, especially those who were in the food prep industry worked incredibly long hours since it was all on their own backs to sail or swim. And owning a restaurant is a tough and competitive business that has an only one in ten chance of success. The guy wouldn't have made it home any earlier than a cop!

But watching her tear her tissue into a snow pile of small pieces on her lap, he'd refrained from adding that the con was good; the guy had done his homework. His ex loved to cook - the extra pounds he carried still testimony to her skill in that area. And with a maiden name like Scalini - which she had assumed again after the divorce - it wouldn't have been difficult for the crook to figure out that Italian is her favorite! Hence a dream _Italian_ restaurant.

How could she not have connected those dots?

But he'd pulled the rein on those comments and forced himself to think like a detective again. "So did he tell you what this project was that had sucked up all his dough?"

"Cars," she'd replied. "Old ones."

"Like vintage automobiles?"

She'd shrugged, and herding the tissue shreds into a neat pile, replied somewhat testily, "I don't know. It has four wheels and runs on gas! What do I know about cars?" Then adds a bit more deferentially, "But if it's important, he did email me a photo. He told me he'd finally sold it to raise money for his restaurant but that it hadn't brought in quite enough."

"Hence the request for another loan…"

Yep. A classic con. Get the mark to think you're already fully invested in some scheme and they'll bite a lot faster than on their own. But again, what was the use of rubbing her face in it? He'd kept his mouth shut and had merely asked for a copy of the photo.

He bites into the dog again, this time leaning over so any errant mustard trails can end up on the ground and not his tie. The photo's in his pocket now…a possible lead, if it's not just another part of the con. It's an "old car", just like his ex said, but a real vintage one, early '50's maybe. A luxury Bentley, maroon in color and that in good shape could easily fetch a hundred thou. Not too many of those around anymore!

With a few phone calls he's already put in motion inquiries to certain car clubs that focus on the luxury vintages, in addition to several of the city's custom shops…though even if the car is actually the con's real "project", there's no telling if the scum resides in the city, and not some distant state. Or country, for that matter.

One of the first actions for such a con, is the insistence to leave any chat room or other organized social media in favor of the more anonymous private email correspondence. And that's exactly what this guy did…with of course an untraceable email. Or at least not one a NYPD cop without a warrant and only conventional resources could trace.

_The Professor could do it._ But he shrugs off the thought as before. That would be his last resort.

Popping the last of the hot dog into his mouth, he wipes his hands, polishes off coke and dumps his trash in the bin. Time to start tracking down his other lead, the accounting one, and he knows just who to collar for that!

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'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

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"Leon! Open up!" Fusco leans on the bell again, then places himself squarely in front of the peep hole. "It's Detective Fusco!" He knows the little man is home; his car is parked in the garage.

_But good Lord! What if the guy is "entertaining" again? _

The last time he'd come banging on this door, Leon had met him wearing nothing but skivvies. Not a sight he needs to see again…! And the sound of females giggling in the back ground that time had made the identity of the guy's "guests" quite clear.

By the third ring, the rattling of a security chain can be heard after which the door slowly opens several inches to expose a partial of the con artist's face.

"Oh, it's you, Detective!" The door closes briefly, then opens wide to reveal a fully clothed Leon Tao…

_Thank you, God!_

"You know, that peep hole is there for a reason. And I told you who I was!" Fusco grumps, pushing past the little man and moving into the apartment, while Leon glances quickly down one direction of the hallway and then the other.

"You expecting someone else, Leon? In trouble again?"

"It's a rough neighborhood Officer. Can't be too careful, you know." The con artist closes the door and relocks it.  
"But…uh…what can I do for you?"

"You're a forensic accountant aren't you?"

Leon eyes him closely and Fusco can almost see the wheels turning, before the little man replies, drawing out the word, "Yeessss..."

"Well, I need you to do some forensicing! This account. Tell me whose it is and…and I'll buy you a steak dinner."

"At a restaurant of my choice?"

Fusco stares at the sometimes…ok, most times…two-bit con artist, and knows he's going to be taken to the cleaners on this. But whatever. It'll be worth the price.  
"Yeah," he replies reluctantly, handing over a slip of paper. "Here's the number. See what you can do."

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

Shaw rummages through the third file drawer and finding nothing but candy wrappers and miscellaneous office documents, slides it close with a disappointed huff.

Seems like she's done nothing on this case but poke around in this scum's life debris, with nothing concrete to show for it. All she's been able to do so far is confirm what Finch has already uncovered, namely that their Number is an accountant, working as an audit specialist on a contract basis for several large banks.

_And evidently makes good money considering the top dollar living quarters he calls home…_

She'd found nothing there either but at least in his apartment she could console herself with a bottle of his best wine. Here - nada! And she's all but done with her searching now, except for the last console drawer…and…_hell-lo!_

"Finch, it looks like our guy has a firearm. A .38 snub. Loaded. And a really stupid gun to own." She doesn't hide the derision in her tone. "Unless the guy is an experienced shooter, this is a wildly inaccurate weapon."

Finch responds with the non-committal sound of a person truly uncomfortable even talking about firearms…which Shaw ignores as she continues to verbalize her thoughts.  
"Don't get me wrong. It's a gun, and it shoots bullets. But a newbie with a snubbie is twice as scary because you have no idea where the bullet's going to end up."

But Finch is evidently not much interested in her dissertation on the finer points of gun ownership and interrupts her.  
"_I think it's time you get out of there Ms. Shaw. You mentioned he's very punctual with his lunch time, and that time is about up_."

"Right. Let me just take a quick look at the file in here." She pulls the manila folder out from under the weapon. "Looks like it's full of photos. About a dozen I'd say…and…." She stops.

"_Ms. Shaw? Are you still there?"_ Finch's voice edges from questioning into concern. _"Ms. Shaw!"_

"Finch…I think I just found the connection between our two Numbers!"

.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

"He's good, man! Really good!"

Leon types furiously while heaping accolades on the faceless person whom he obviously considers a worthy opponent. His admiration for the fellow con's scam colors his voice, and Fusco reminds himself to keep a wary eye on the little man in the future, just in case the forensic accountant decides to try the game himself.

The cop listens with scant attention to Leon's latest commentary, his concentration having waned over the last couple of hours while the little man continually verbalized his progress. If he could have understood just a smidgen of all that accounting mumbo-jumbo, he might have kept his mind in the game, but as it was…the last slice of cold pizza in that box was much more interesting.

"You see what he did here? You see?" says Leon with boyish enthusiasm, pointing to the monitor screen. "Now that's a classic maneuver. Accept the money here," as he points to the screen again, "Then transfer it under a different number to this dummy account, but split off just enough that whoever is searching for that amount won't be able to match the numbers!"

He almost bounces in his seat with glee. "But of course, he's counting on some 8 to 5, five day a week civil servant bureaucrat to come after him. Not a dedicated expert like me! It's just a matter of connecting the dots…"

"Right." Fusco agrees vaguely, poking at the cheese topping. The stuff has hardened to the consistency of chewed gum. But whatever. He takes a bite, pleased that the taste fortunately hasn't been altered by being merely cold. Either that or he's just really hungry.

"And. There. We. Are."

The cop now turns back to the computer, pizza forgotten. "You got him?"

"Right there. That's the name…"

So with a vague promise to contact the con artist "soon" and make good on his promise for a steak dinner, Fusco leaves the apartment in a much better mood than he'd entered. He has a name. Now he just needs to attach a location to that identity, and that means back to the precinct and his computer.

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

Another two hours sifting through the NYPD data bases and all he still has is a name. However, he at least finds himself in a good news, bad news situation…

The bad news: the ID info came back alright, but the address is a dummy, a long empty apartment with a local PO Box to accept mail. And without a warrant he has no way to force the post master to give him any data on the owner of the box.

But the good news?

The president of a well established antique car club has called him back with information on a maroon Bentley fitting the description given and exhibited at a local car show not more than a month ago. So lying through his teeth, Fusco convinces the man of his interest in paying a large sum for such a "priceless vintage luxury car".

The car owners name and phony address are verified by the club's records, but more importantly he manages to get the current location of said car: a Long Island storage lot specializing in climate controlled units for valued antique autos.

An hour later, he's brow beat the senior citizen running the units into letting him see the maroon Bentley. And yep, that's it. It matches the photo, right down to a discrete club sticker on the front window. Now he stands in the office of the storage lot's manager, putting on his most intimidating cop act.

One way or another he's going to find where the owner of that car really lives, even if he has to physically beat it out of the old man!

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

"You think he's going to try to arrest the guy?"

Finch stirs his tea with precision, casting a thoughtful glance at the two photos taped once again side by side on the board before responding to Shaw. "The Machine wouldn't have given us his number unless he's planning some kind of violent act, or…

"Or Fusco's in danger from baldy here," finishes Reese.

Finch had called both former operatives back to the library upon the completion of his search into the significance of the photos found in Baldy's office. Field work is no longer needed as everything he wants to know can now be found in the digital ether.

It hadn't taken him long to discover the link between the photos: all but one were of women in financial straits after becoming victims of an on-line scam, and all but one of the women had filed police reports, though they must have known the chances of recovering their money to be slim to none.

_A sad commentary on present society_…

It took even less effort to complete the puzzle. A serious invasion into their second Number's private data quickly put him on the accounting trail that led him to the con's real image, name, and address…and evidence of a particularly lucrative scam.

The last photo concerned him though, as it was not of a woman but a child. One they'd all recognized instantly: Detective Fusco's son. He'd quickly identified one of the women as the chubby cop's ex-wife, and also as the one woman who hadn't filed a scam report. No big stretch to assume she too had become a victim of Baldy's con…and called in her former spouse for help!

The big worry now is why the child is included in the collection. Several of the other women had children, none of them part of the photo series.  
Is the boy somehow a target?

"If this guy found out that his latest victim was once married to a cop, he may be using the boy as a deterrent to her filing a regular police report…once she catches on to his game."

"I think you may be right, Mr. Reese," Finch responds. "And that would also explain why the Machine considers the detective's involvement as more than just an NYPD officer making an arrest. Detective Fusco is obviously connecting the dots and has been pursuing this man outside the confines of his normal role within the NYPD."

Finch glances again at the photo of the portly policeman. "If his son is being threatened, he may very likely resort to some violent act."

Shaw tightens her lips. She hadn't said a word while handing the photos to Finch and had continued to simply listen to the two men discuss the case until asking her one and only question. Knowing that the child she had saved from Simmons's goons several months ago could well be in danger again did not sit well.

If Baldy makes a move to harm the boy, she will provide a dirt bed for the man. And she'll bury him ass up so she'll have a place to park her bike!

"He's on the move Finch," Reese offers, checking his phone. "He may have found that address."

Finch puts his cup down with an audible clink. "Then it's time we also get going." And as one the trio turns toward the exit gate, Shaw stopping only long enough to pat Bear and whisper, "We'll be back soon. I'll bring you a treat…"

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

Here it is. Hopefully the right address for that scumbag! The old man hadn't given it up easy, but the appearance of a pair of cuffs and a gun had loosen his tongue enough to provide the cop with the name and address associated with the storage of the Bentley. The name is the one he's already got, but the address is different, so maybe he's finally run the guy to ground!

_And now we're going to have a little "chat" with the perp and see what shakes loose!_

It takes flashing his badge to get past the _concierge_, but eventually he stands at the door of the luxury unit. Ringing the bell, he hides the badge in his pocket and places himself in front of the peep hole, his face forced into a friendly smile. The security chain rattles and the door opens to the maximum allowed width.

"Yes?" asks a voice, the face of a balding male showing briefly between door and jam.

"Hi! You're the owner of that fine Bentley shown at the Vintage Auto Club last month aren't you? Saw your car there, and the club's president was kind enough to tell me where I could find you. May I come in? I'd really like to talk to you…make you an offer."

There's a hesitation while the man looks Fusco up and down, then… "Sure, we can talk."

The door closes as the chain is unhooked, then swung open to reveal the asshole who had scammed his ex out of Lee's collage fund. Fusco works hard to keep the smile on his face.

The cop enters the apartment, taking in the art work and expensive furniture, luxury screaming at him from every corner of the room. His scruffy shoes sink into the deep pile carpet while he surveys the various paintings hung on the wall, all spotlighted with individual illuminations. And while he's certainly no connoisseur, those fancy vases, plates, and statues wouldn't get their own special cubbies in a wall if they were just knock-offs.

_The place looks like a damn museum! The stuff in this room alone probably worth more than 10 years a cop's salary! _

And some of that _stuff_ has been purchased with money meant for his son's education. He has to work doubly to stay calm and project the image of friendly interest…when what he'd like to do is punch the scum into next week!

Fusco is still taking it in all when he hears the door being closed behind him…and then a sound only too recognizable to a person in his profession: that of the racking of a gun slide.

_Well, damn!_

Slowing raising his hands to shoulder level, he turns to face his adversary, any pretense to friendliness evaporating.

"Just how stupid do you think I am, officer?" asks the balding man, the gun perfectly steady in his hand and pointed squarely at the cop's middle. "You're that bitch's ex. You were in some pictures she emailed…the cop she always gripped about. It didn't take me long to connect the dots when she starting asking questions."

Fusco stands motionless, calling himself every which way stupid for not anticipating this scenario, all the while assessing his chances of diving into the guy before a bullet could hit something vital. If he goes in low enough he might take a hit to the shoulder or arm, but that wouldn't stop him.

_Hopefully…_

"Now the big question is…how did you find me? She never got my real address, and neither did that car club." He motions Fusco to step to the center of the room with a miniscule movement of the gun. "So you either got pull with the Feds, or you got some awesome hacking skills!"

"You know, scamming is bad enough; it'll get you jail time. But killing a cop? That'll put you away for life. You might want to rethink this."  
Fusco tries not to let his increasing anxiety show. Scammers don't normally escalate their crimes to violent acts, but this guy…? The fact that the con even has a weapon puts him in a different class altogether!

The armed man scoffs, waving the gun again.  
"Don't have to. Because no one is going to trace anything back to me! Bodies disappear all the time, officer. You know that." He motions with the gun.

"Now move into the bathroom; I don't want to mess up this nice carpet."

Reluctantly the cop turns around and heads to the door indicated by his captor. Once inside, perhaps he would be in closer proximity to the perp and… But the guy is evidently not planning on joining him in the vast tiled room, and stops short of entering at the doorway.

"Into the tub. Keep your face to that window."

So is this it? Is this how it all ends? He feels a strange calm, as though it's all some weird scene he's stumbled into. His partner had gone out in a blaze of glory, fighting for a noble cause…but he, after all he's gone through this year, he's going to die in some bathtub at the hands of a two-bit con? It hardly seems fair…

He hears a click and shuts his eyes, still furiously thinking of a way to somehow change the outcome of this scenario. He's _got_ to find a way out of this, because without him, what will happen to Lee? The boy needs a father, especially now during these teenage years. He sets his jaw, bunches his muscles and prepares to turn and launch himself at the perp.

But instead of the gunshot he's anticipating, there's suddenly a loud thud and then a mocking voice he's heard all too often: "Lionel, you picked a heck of a time to take a bath."

Fusco finishes his movement, whirling around to see Reese standing over the would-be killer, the con obviously out for the count. As the ex-op casually returns his weapon to the small of his back, Shaw pushes past her assassin-in-arms, and asks calmly, "Shall I get rid of him for you, Lionel? My services include trash removal."

"Ah…no. That's…ah…ok. But thanks...!"

He feels shaken, like one would when suddenly awakened from a particularly bad nightmare. Nothing seems real at this moment and his hands go on auto pilot as he removes his cuffs, getting down on one knee to place them on the prone man. The adrenaline rush has caused a small tremor in his hands which he hopes no one will notice.

Since he's pretty sure Mr. Deadly never has that problem...

At this level he can see a pair of dark shoes to his right. Nice shine, he thinks incongruously. Designer shoes. But then Wonder Boy probably makes good money working for the Professor. He shakes his head, forcing himself back into the game as he slowly rises to his feet and faces the man he still refers to in his head as the Bane of his Existence.

"Thanks…"

It's all he can come up with. After all, what else can you say to a guy who's just saved your ass and as a result, allows you to continue to play the most important role in your life….that of being a dad? But the big guy is already turning away, addressing the Professor who's waiting just inside the apartment's entry.

"Harold! I told you to wait outside until we got through in here!"

Fusco almost smiles. It's a trip to hear Reese admonish his boss, given that the geek holds all the power in this mismatched group of do-gooders. And as if to verify that assumption, Finch ignores his employee's comment and continues into the apartment.

"I see everything has been taken care of."

The older man turns to Fusco. "I wish you had come to us with this issue, Detective. It could have saved you the present…problem. But as it is, rest assured that I have emptied all those overseas accounts and placed the funds in escrow."

He steps delicately around the prone scammer into the oversized bathroom. "Let me know who will be responsible for the distribution of the money back to the legal owners and I will send them the pertinent information concerning the holding account."

"Yeah, I will…and thanks." He feels like he's repeating himself here and that there should be a lot more he should say, but again it's all he can come up with.

Shaw looks down at the unconscious body. "You're absolutely sure you don't want him to disappear permanently?"

.

EPILOGUE

.

It's over. Finally.

Fusco sighs his relief as he walks slowly out of the precinct. The threat to his ex and son is eliminated and the money will eventually be returned. And he even got an "atta boy" from the Chief…right after being reamed for not turning the whole affair over to Frauds!

His ex-spouse is of course appropriately grateful, though their leave taking had been strangely stilted. A hand shake. Weird.

Funny…folks always say a danger to a family makes everyone pull together, get closer. Well, that sure didn't happen here. But then, they're not a family anymore, are they? His ex may have been grateful he pulled this iron out of her fire, and maybe she even revised some of her earlier opinions about him, but as far as he's concerned they're not friends. No more now than before.

Standing next to his unit, he unconsciously jingles the keys in his pocket, thinking over events of the past few days. That he and the mother of his son barely know each other now doesn't matter anyway; he's changed and not the same person he was.  
Changed from before he met the Dynamic Duo.  
Before he helped take down HR.  
Before his partner's death.

_Everything is different now. _

He'd spent more than a year grieving over the loss of family life and his role as full time dad, all the time hoping some miracle would have his ex-wife taking him back. But now? When he looks at the mother of his child, all he sees is just another woman who got into a jam and needed help getting out. The marriage bond is truly broken; the emotional hooks gone.

Though he'll always be a Dad to Lee, his allegiance has shifted away from his former wife, their mutual interests and the circle of friends they had developed together. His loyalty has been transferred to others - even if some of them are a royal pain in the ass.

In his periphery, he sees a tall figure detach from the surrounding shadows of the underground garage. _Ah. Speaking of royal pains…!_

"Need a ride?" he asks, finally pulling out the keys and fingering the remote as the silent figure gets closer.

"No thanks."

He turns to face the Professor's hired gun, somewhat surprised at being sought out - apparently for no reason. And this time Wonder Boy is actually looking at him with that piercing gaze free of suspicion or disgust, giving him his full attention. Hadn't seen that in a long time.

"_You're getting good at this, Lionel."_  
"_I was always good at this. That's why you picked me in the first place. Remember?"_

Things are a lot different since that scene and the cop knows he isn't the only one that's changed over the last many months.

_They all have_.

Take the Professor for instance. Where before the master mind of their team had always refrained from taking a hands-on approach in their quest to save innocents, the geek is now fully engaged in all their nefarious activities. Sometimes dangerous activities that occasionally set the cop's teeth on edge!

And since Shaw's appearance on the team, he's noticed Reese moving steadily to the periphery of their operations, increasingly letting Finch or Shaw take the lead - or even that Froot Loop who calls herself Root! Like the ex-op isn't really that vested anymore in their save-people-in-trouble project…

In fact, Carter's death had only accelerated that diminishing involvement as Mr. Deadly had simply walked out, leaving the remaining team vulnerable with only an overworked NYPD cop and the unpredictable Ms. Shaw to work as Finch's close partners!

The chubby cop still remembers with disgust the outcome of his attempts to bring the big guy back into the fold. Even after Reese came back - and it took Glasses to accomplish that – the ex-op never seemed to fully re-engage with the rest of them, not even Finch, the man the ex-agent had often credited with saving his life.

Oh, not that Mr. Deadly isn't still effective, but lately the guy seems to be making a show of trading blows, like he's merely going through the motions, walking through his part… Where a year before he'd been the Major Domo, he now seems content to let others lead the parade, often becoming merely a spectator to the procession.

So why is Wonder Boy here now, making him squirm under that intense gaze?

"About Colorado… We're good now?"

_Ah. So that was it!_ Not much of an apology, but might as well take it since it's probably all that will ever be offered!

"Yeah. Sure."

And Fusco slowly shakes his head, pondering once again on how everything around him just keeps evolving, as he watches with a certain amount of sadness his clay footed hero slipping back into the shadows.

End

.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

The prompt for this story was one provided (unintentionally) by Kevin Chapman, who mentioned in an interview earlier this year that one idea he'd pitched to the writers involved Fusco's ex-wife being in trouble:

_"He helps her out of the love for his child, but not so much for his love for her, but he has to keep it from the child. He's reluctantly helping someone that he really doesn't want to help, but he's doing it out of the love of his child, which I thought would be very interesting." – Kevin Chapman (zapit 1/14)_

Since Chapman aired that story idea in public, it obviously hasn't been picked up by the writers…leaving me free to use it! ^_^


End file.
